


Ogygia

by Caepio



Category: Ancient History RPF, Classical Greece and Rome History & Literature RPF, Julius Caesar - Shakespeare
Genre: Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Enemies to Lovers, I might not even get there honestly, I say cinaedus too much, M/M, Sort of abandoned, enemies literally just sleeping next to each other and nothing else, not actually that abandoned, or just, or maybe just enemies sleeping together, the revivification process is. a process., this is a very old abandoned work, yet - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-24
Updated: 2019-12-01
Packaged: 2020-01-25 17:43:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 7,801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18579415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Caepio/pseuds/Caepio
Summary: What if Brutus didn't have a chance to kill himself, what if Antony found him first? What if Antony didn't actually want him dead? If you're looking for historical accuracy and rationality... this is not the place.





	1. 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Corvo (Duchess_Of_York)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Duchess_Of_York/gifts).



Marcus Brutus was kneeling on the floor of Mark Antony's tent, his hands still on the ground in front of him, where they'd fallen when he'd been forced to kneel. A thin cut across his cheek still dripped blood down across his pale skin; pale with exhaustion, with anger, and perhaps, to a certain extent, fear. This was not how he had intended this day to end. He should be dead. He should have been allowed to commit honorable suicide. But instead, he was a captive, waiting for someone who now had more power than him to decide what was to be done with his life. He hated it.  


He heard the sound of a pen scratching against papyrus, the low creak of wooden furniture as Antony leant forward in his chair. Brutus resisted the urge to look up.   


"Aren't you going to ask what I'm going to do with you?" Antony's voice, breaking the tense silence of the tent. Brutus refused to look at him.  


"Why should I bother?" He said quietly, unmoving, "You'll do what's expected, I imagine. What I would do in your case, for once."  


Silence again. Antony had stopped writing. There was no sound at all, no indication of what he was doing now, but Brutus could feel his gaze burning against the back of his neck. "And why would I do that?" The man asked after a moment, something almost amused in his tone. "I'd hate to do what you expect of me. Especially if you think it’s reasonable."  


"I didn't say I thought it was reasonable." He responded, barely audibly, "I'd think it necessary but not reasonable."  


He heard Antony stand up, walking around his desk to stand in front of Brutus. "Stand up." He said quietly. An order, not a suggestion or a request. Brutus didn't move.  


"Now."   


Brutus finally looked up at him, raising one eyebrow slightly, trying not to show anything but disdain for the whole situation; it was the only power left him. "Why on earth should I?"  


"Because I told you to. Stand up."  


"No matter what I do, my situation can't get much worse. I'm going to end up dead, one way or another, regardless of whether or not I stand for you." He held Antony's gaze for a moment, neither of them speaking, before he looked away again.   


An exasperated sigh from Antony, and Brutus felt the other man grip his arm painfully, dragging him to his feet. He looked up sharply, not surprised by his action, but for a moment deeply unsure of the entire situation, unable to understand the expression in Antony's eyes, or the tone of his words.  


"You will listen to me." He was saying quietly, "And you will not disobey me. If you can do that, we might just manage to get along."  


"Get along?" Brutus said, a low, rough laugh breaking from him, "Why should we get along?"  


"Because I'm not sending you back to Rome." Antony said, crossing his arms and watching Brutus carefully, "In fact, I'm not even going to tell Octavius that you're alive."  


Brutus stared at him for a moment, speechless in shock, finally managing to piece together a coherent sentence, "Why in gods name won't you?"  


Antony smiled slightly, “You make it sound as if you want to be sent to back to Rome in pieces…."  


Brutus tensed slightly, looking away from Antony, "No. I Just- I don't understand… Isn't that what all this was about? You wanting me to end up dead?”  


Antony shook his head slightly, "I've changed my mind." He raised an eyebrow slightly, "Besides, I don't want to give the brat the satisfaction of getting to plan your death. And I think you'll agree with me in that at least." He shrugged, "You're my prisoner, I'll do with you as I like. And as long as no one else knows you're alive, then I can't think of any reason not to keep you that way."  


Brutus looked at him sharply "I'm still a citizen of Rome. You can't just do as you like with me. The law, can do as it likes with me, but you- No. I still have legal responsibilities to Rome… And you can't just decide things like that for me. You, personally, cannot do that without the law behind you."  


Brutus' voice died off, realizing his words had had little affect on the man across from him. Antony watched him cooly for a moment, the silence stretching out in a way that made Brutus feel incredibly unsure of himself, before he finally spoke, "For all intents and purposes, you're dead now. No one but me and a small handful of my soldiers know that you're alive." He frowned slightly, considering the dark haired man, "You're not a senator. You're not a general. You're not anything anymore, Brutus. You're just yourself now.” He considered him for a moment, his eyebrows drawn together slightly, “I wonder if you know how to live with that."  


Brutus stiffened, meeting Antony's gaze in defiance, "What will you do then? Lock me up somewhere? Leave time to finish what I tried to do this afternoon?"  


"No." Antony said cooly, "Yes to the first. But I don't know yet what I'm going to do with you." He looked at him for a moment, something in his gaze softening slightly, less harsh and antagonistic, before he looked away again, shrugging slightly, "I don't know why, but it seemed a waste to let you die."  


"Pity you couldn't have decided that two years ago." Brutus replied coldly.   


Antony didn't respond, going to his desk and picking up his pen again, finishing the letter he'd been writing, speaking without looking at the other man, "I'm sending you to an island off the coast. You'll stay there, under guard, until - if - I think of a better idea."  


Brutus crossed his arms, feeling more unsure of himself than he had in a long time, the idea of ‘living death' far from to his taste. "What do you get out of this Antony?" He asked after a moment. "You must want something of me."  


Antony glanced up at him, “If it becomes relevant to your situation, I’ll let you know.”  


Brutus frowned, his expression militant, clearly unsatisfied with Antony’s response.  


Antony watched him for a moment. Brutus had glanced away again, and Antony took the opportunity to look at him without being noticed. Brutus was trying to block the other man out of his awareness, to be able to ignore him completely. The silence of the tent, and Antony’s presence profoundly uncomfortable to him.  


“Can you honestly say you aren’t just the slightest bit relieved to not be dead?”  


“If Plato spoke truly, then I have nothing to fear from death.”  


“A bit arrogant of you to say that isn’t it?” Antony inquired cooly, “I’d say a great portion of your life is very questionable morally.”  


“You would say that.” Brutus said, shrugging away Antony’s words as if they didn’t matter, “Your views aside, I did what was right.”  


“No, you hope you did what was right.”  


Brutus glanced up at him, anger in his eyes again, “You can’t possibly know my thoughts. Don’t assume you know what my hopes are either.”  


Antony shrugged, bracing his foot against the base of the desk and leaning back in his chair, slowly tilting it, the silence lengthening till the sound of a quick, annoyed voice from outside the tent finally broke it. The words were muffled but the tone was clear - Octavius’ sharp voice berating the guard for not allowing him entrance to the tent.  


A low sigh of exasperated frustration fell from Antony’s lips and he pushed his chair back, standing up and going to the door of the tent, glancing back at Brutus once, as if he had considered reminding him to stay put where he was but had thought better of it, and then he was gone, slipping out through the tent flap.  


Brutus leant his head back against the wooden pole of the tent that he’d been sitting with his back to. He heard the voices - Antony’s and Octavius’ - receding in the distance and he took a moment to stretch and check over his own injuries unwatched. He wiped away the blood that trailed down from the cut across his cheek, looking at the darkening crimson stain it left on his hand. He was struck by a sudden, and almost angry desire for the blood that stained his hands to be more. To be able to let all the blood from his body. He wasn’t afraid of death. Whatever Antony might say, he was not. He’d prove it too, if he had the option. But he didn’t. He drew one knee to his chest, and settled back to wait for the other man, his eyes on the still tent flap, his thoughts a white-noise of pain, frustration, and tangled confusion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wrote this a long time ago, technically completed, but I'm not sure I like where it went in retrospect. What you see is what you get... If you notice any errors... get in a time machine and complain to Me Five Years Ago. I was generally pretty obliging 5 years ago.


	2. 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey there folks. Guess what I couldn't do: Leave it alone. Yeah.  
> It's been five years. Do I write like I did five years ago? No.
> 
> Would this story, today, have the same plot as the one I gave it five years ago? No. 
> 
> Am I going to just post the stuff I already wrote that completed this five years ago and throw my hands in the air and say I'm Done With This and dance off into the distance to music from Zorba the Greek? Tempting. But no. 
> 
> Nope. We're going to play a game called 'what happens when someone who hasn't written fanfic in five years pokes her dead fanfic with a stick' and maybe electrocutes it. And tries very hard to vivify it in a non freaky way. Catch the Homer reference and you win something. I don't know what. But it's definitely something.

Night hangs upon mine eyes, my bones would rest, 

That have but labour'd, to attain this hour.

__

_Julius Caesar_ Act 5, Scene 5

.

.

.

Brutus was tired. He wasn’t going to rest.  
His head was aching, his eyes heavy. He wasn’t going to sleep.  
_He wasn’t._ Exhaustion was weakness. Sleep was vulnerability. He sat awake, staring at the thin line of light he could see at the base of the tent, watching it get darker, then disappear. 

No sign of Antony.

The camp quieted around him. It grew colder. No one came to light the lamps, the darkness was complete. 

He was bone-weary. Sick with exhaustion. He hadn’t slept the night before. Or the night before.

The first night (which he’d believed his last) he’d stayed awake, saying to himself, “Why sleep? You love to see the dawn.”

The second, running through the woods, watching his future slip away with every foot of retreat, there was no time, no reason for rest. Why store up strength you don’t need? Last few miles. _Push through._ The end is in sight. Do this right and _you’ve done well._

Here he was. Here came the third night. No reason not to sleep, no reason _to sleep._ No reason for anything, anymore.

He felt sick. He got up. He paced, arms crossed tightly, eyes adjusting to the dark. 

He wondered what Cassius would have said.  
He wondered what Portia would have said.

He didn't want to know what they'd have said. Didn't want to think of either of them seeing his failure, his pain. 

He wondered if it was cowardice that had kept him from killing himself sooner. If he’d done it at the first sign of defeat, he would have avoided this. 

He didn’t want that thought. He hadn’t hesitated, he _wouldn’t_ have hesitated, _he’d been right on the verge, ready to leap_ — and then, he’d been pulled back.

You should have tried harder.

_It wasn’t weakness. It's not my fault. Antony did this._

Coward. Since when do you blame other people?

_I didn't want to make Cassius’ mistake._

That would be better than this.

_I wanted enough time to get my last moment right._

You were never going to get it right.

_I wanted to see the beginning of the dawn._

Avaricious. You should know when to let go.

_I thought the world might give me that little space of time._

Idealist. Idiot. Nήπῐος.

He didn’t have an answer to the horror filling his chest. For a month - for years, really - he’d lived with a certain set of expectations. He’d thought he understood the stakes. He’d thought, whatever happened, he’d be allowed to die. 

If he didn’t walk over the edge himself, someone would push him. That was the worst option he could conceive. It would be dishonourable, but it would still be death. Life wasn’t in the cards. He wasn’t ever going to live. His death was god-fated. He’d thought that for so long that he could joke about it, poeticise it, ἀλλά με μοῖρ' ὀλοὴ καὶ Λητοῦς ἔκτανεν υἱός...

He knew how to get through when there was a job to be done. A role to play. A place he fit in. He could take anything that came, with that. He could do it well, even beautifully. 

The worst thing wasn’t that Antony had taken away his death. It was that he hadn’t let him keep his life. 

The worst thing was forcing him to sit here, unsure if life existed without those things, if he existed without them.

There was nothing he could do. And still, he didn’t know what Antony wanted. He hadn’t thought the man had the patience to kill someone with a slow pain. Didn’t think _that_ kind of vindictiveness was in his nature. Antony did things quickly, or not at all. Antony liked everyone to _see_ what happened to his enemies.

There was nothing that made sense of this. Nothing that made it better, easier, or even understood.

It was full nighttime, now. The sun had sunk and all the paths were dark. There were shadows outside the tent, the watchfires casting a flickering glow on the hide walls from outside. Brutus watched them for a moment and felt his head spin as he slid out of consciousness a little, unwillingly. His muscles were trembling, rebelling, demanding rest. He sat down heavily, sliding to the floor, back to a support pole of the tent. He ran his hands through his hair, catching on knots and matted blood. His head pounded. His muscles ached. He dug the heels of his hands into his eyes till he saw red, forcing himself awake with pain. It couldn’t last. 

Sometime later, as the moon rose and sentries traded posts, Brutus' breathing slowed. His head drooped. The tension slid away from his shoulders, and at last, he fell asleep.


	3. Chapter 3

Late that night, Octavius came looking for Antony. He was still wandering the camp, going watchfire to watchfire, listening to the soldier’s conversations, sometimes adding to them. He wasn’t quite himself. Not as recklessly exulting as he usually was after a victory. Not as loud and competitive. An observant person might almost have called him contemplative. 

Octavius tracked him down near midnight. He hesitated, briefly, before deigning to sit down next to Antony at the fire.

Antony ignored him.

“We should send more men to search tomorrow.”

Antony looked up, and it was clear that rather than ignoring Octavius, he hadn’t been aware of him at all. 

“Search for what?”

“ _Whom._ Brutus is still out there.”

“Do you really think he’s alive?”

“It’s possible.”

Antony laughed, sharp and without humour, staring at the fire. “No, it isn’t.” 

“We haven’t found his body.”

“So? You think Brutus would miss his chance at martyrdom?”

“Perhaps he couldn’t do it-”

“I wouldn’t worry about that.” Antony’s smile was mocking, "I’m sure he was _practicing_ for that moment ever since his uncle fucked it up. 

“ _Then where is he?_ ”

“At this rate?” Antony shrugged, untroubled, then looked right at Octavius, huddled against the cold in more layers than any other soldier that night. “The vultures have probably gotten to him. I doubt he has a face you could recognise anymore.”

Octavius’ jaw clenched and he looked away, barely breathing. “You’re not concerned?”

“No.”

Octavius fell silent. Then, when it became clear Antony wasn’t going to pay him any attention-

“I wanted to send his head back to Rome.”

“Too bad.”

“I’ll send more men tomorrow.”

“Go look yourself if it’s worrying you.”

Octavius, pale and tense, replied shortly. “That isn’t necessary.” 

Antony laughed unkindly and stood, stretching extravagantly. “I’m going to bed. If you find Brutus’ corpse, _and can recognise it_ , do let me know.”

With that, he disappeared into the dark, leaving Octavius to think on rotting flesh and carrion stench.

You’d never know that until he’d secured him, Antony had been unable to stomach the thought of Brutus’ corpse either - If for _very_ different reasons.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [If you like modern takes on classical music to accompany your reading...](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jzaOBg7qjAk)

Brutus was asleep when Antony came back to the tent. It was dark, quiet, and cold, the winds that had whipped through the plain for over a month finally still. 

Antony lit a small lamp and leaned against the edge of his desk, watching Brutus. If Antony didn’t _know_ what a corpse looked like, he might have said Brutus looked dead. He was pale enough. Still enough. Antony had to watch to see him breath. 

He’d never seen Brutus asleep. He wondered if many people had.

Antony was too tired to do much beyond stare. He was glad Brutus wasn’t awake. Brutus was never anything except a fight. Even defeated, he’d escalate an argument into war. Antony was done with war. For now. For tonight. Until he’d slept.

Antony took the lamp and knelt down next to Brutus on the ground. He wasn’t sure he'd ever seen Brutus in a truly vulnerable moment, a moment when he didn’t have the awareness to try to _be_ something. 

He looked a little like he used to look, when he was young. When no one knew what he would do, or why. When you could look at him and all you could think was - _There’s potential there. He’s capable. His future will be worth something._

This, of course, was before Cyprus. Before Pharsalus. 

Antony hadn’t particularly cared about the money. He didn’t care about other people’s vices, his morality went only as far as sensualism and pragmatism might allow. But the world had different rules for him, during war. However _useful_ Brutus' defection had been, after Pompey, Antony had never looked at him the same way. It occurred to him that had Brutus sold out Pompey and stabbed Caesar the next moment, it would not have surprised him. Four years later, he still hadn’t been _surprised_.

Brutus was paler than he was then, bruised and scarred, and the shadows flickered oddly across the sharp, malnourished edges of his face.

Without realising it, Antony’s breath had slowed to match his.  
Antony wondered how he had fallen asleep. It was bitter cold, frost in the air, snow already on the mountains. Antony could feel the freezing bite through the ground. Brutus had no cloak, he didn’t appear to have moved from where Antony had left him - Not to light the lamps, the braziers, or even to take a blanket from the bed. He was still fast asleep. 

Antony unpinned his cloak, quietly, carefully, covering Brutus with it. He didn’t wake. 

Antony smiled slightly, the expression out of place with the rest of his demeanour, something ingenuous and almost kind in it striking strangely with his scars, his weariness, their surroundings.

He silently removed his armour. Blew out the lamp. Went to bed. And, listening to the quiet sound of Brutus’ breathing, Antony fell asleep.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [If you prefer modern music to accompany your reading...](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bvjNyJ8TBNk)

Antony was out of bed, sword drawn, before he knew what had woken him. It was still dark. Still cold. 

At first he thought nothing was wrong.

Then he heard Brutus’ breathing, sharp and fast and panicked. The other man was sitting up, but Antony wasn't sure he was really awake, he was staring sightlessly ahead of him, and a minute later he curled forward violently, spine tense, forehead pressed against the ground, fingers knotted through his hair.

Antony grabbed his shoulder, pulling him upright, and Brutus cried out, jerking away from Antony. He stared at him, awake but not really _there._

“What’s wrong?”

Brutus closed his eyes, trembling, shallow breaths wracking him

“Are you alright?” _Like talking to a skittish horse._ Antony reached out to touch the bandage around Brutus’ shoulder, “Is it your wound?”

Brutus shook his head, struggling to breathe. “No- No… I thought that-” He looked past Antony to the entrance of the tent, and Antony turned to follow his gaze, hand on his sword.

There was no one there. 

Brutus ran his hands through his hair, breathing shallowly, a hysterical laugh beginning at the back of his throat. “Go back to bed… Just… Go back to bed.”

“What was it?”

“ _Nothing._ ”

“You woke me up for nothing?”

“I didn’t _mean_ to wake you up. I don’t want to _be here_ I-”

Antony braced Brutus’ shoulders, trying to get him to look straight at him. “Breathe. _Breathe-_ I’m not arguing with you right now-”

“ _Well fuck you too._ ” Brutus forced out, tilting his head back, eyes closed, struggling through several deep breaths.

Antony’s grip tightened on Brutus’ shoulder and he made himself pull away. “Look. It’s godawful early. Just-”

“I thought it was Caesar, alright? I thought that-“

“ _Caesar?_ ”

Silence. Brutus stared him down, militant, shaken, daring him to laugh.

“I’ve been having these hallucinations-” He said finally. “Not hallucinations… _Dreams._ ” Brutus closed his eyes, not breathing. Antony couldn’t tell if he was trying to be silent, or if he was incapable of speaking. He backed off a little bit, sitting back on the ground. 

Brutus took in a long, slow breath. When he opened his eyes his tone was tight and controlled, “Go back to bed.”

Antony stared him down, watching the way Brutus’ forced calm wavered, unable to hold Antony’s gaze for long.

“Come on.” He said, finally, grabbing Brutus’ arm and pulling him up, “You’re not sleeping on the ground.”

Brutus stared at Antony in confusion as he pushed him towards the bed. “What are you doing?”

“Get under the blankets. Come on.”

“Where are you going to sleep?”

“Next to you.” Seeing the look in Brutus’ eyes he stifled an abrupt laugh, “ _Calm down_ I’m not getting up again if you have another _attack_. Too cold for that.”

He lay down, turning his back to Brutus. There was enough room, just. Brutus hesitantly climbed under the blankets, tense and still, right at the edge of the bed. Antony sighed softly and kicked him with his heel. “ _Breathe._ ”

Silence. Not even breathing. And then, like he had to do it quickly or he’d lose his nerve, Brutus kicked Antony back with a quiet, huff of a sound like laughter. 

Antony tugged the blankets up. Brutus shifted slightly, and the edge of his shoulder brushed against Antony’s back.

His breathing eased a little, not much. Then- So quietly Antony thought he hadn’t meant to speak at all -

“Do you believe in ghosts?”

Antony didn’t laugh. There was a tightly reined in panic in Brutus’ voice, raw with some agony. 

Antony rolled over, looking at Brutus’ pale profile in the dark. “As much as the next person, I suppose…”

He thought Brutus hadn’t heard him. Or maybe had fallen asleep. The silence stretched out, and then, when Antony was almost asleep himself-

“He said I’d see him here… He said- He said this was the place. I thought I knew what he meant… I thought he meant death…”

Antony threw an arm over Brutus’ waist and pulled him closer, too tired to think past the fact that _Brutus was in his bed._ This is what he _did_. 

“Go to sleep, Brutus… If it matters, it will be there in the morning.”

Brutus tensed, and a harsh, gasping sound like a sob shook him. 

Antony pressed his palm flat against Brutus’ chest, trying to soothe, the warmth of Brutus’ body against his deeply satisfying, almost soporific. _You’re here. You’re **here**. You’re alive. You have time… Stop fighting just for a minute. Let yourself sleep, just for a minute… You’re not going to find answers right now. Be the person you used to be, just tonight. I won’t hurt you. I won’t let anyone hurt you._

Without meaning to, Antony had spoken aloud. His breath was warm against the back of Brutus’ neck, his voice quieter than Brutus had ever heard it, soft and full of accidental, half-sleeping honesty. 

The tension eased from Brutus’ shoulders. 

He took in a breath, and then another, chest rising and falling under the weight of Antony’s arm.

He didn’t pull away.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Probably some typos. But I'm *very* done with this chapter.

Brutus woke up.

Just past dawn, light creeping in at the corners. 

He stretched. Sleep-warm, eyes heavy, relaxed. 

He curled closer to the reassuring heat of the person next to him, arm around their waist, head pillowed on their shoulder. Taste of smoke and horses. Sweat and leather. 

Antony’s scent. 

Brutus opened his eyes, tensing, staring at the line of Antony’s throat, the shadow of stubble. Antony wasn’t awake yet. 

He didn’t know what to do. He didn’t know if he should stay. He wasn’t sure he wanted to. He wasn’t sure he _didn’t._

He wasn’t sure he wanted to think about that too much.

Carefully, Brutus untangled himself from Antony’s arms. He cautiously pushed the blankets back and stood up, backing away from the bed. 

_What now?_

He couldn’t pretend it hadn’t happened. He couldn’t take back that bit of vulnerability. Couldn’t take back his own knowledge of Antony’s kindness. If _kindness_ was the right word. 

Footsteps outside the tent. The sound of voices. 

Brutus stiffened, frozen for a moment, then as the voices grew louder, he scrambled for somewhere to hide. He’d only gone five or six steps when the tent flap opened. 

It was Lucilius. 

Lucilius, bandaged, pale, bearing wounds he’d taken for Brutus. Wounds he’d taken to give Brutus a chance to escape. To kill himself. 

Now here they both were.

They stared at each other for a moment - Lucilius looked between Brutus and the still sleeping Antony, seeming to come to some conclusion, some realisation. 

“Sir- I…”

Brutus shook his head slightly. He couldn’t breathe, all the tension of the previous day swarming up his spine. 

“Antony,” Brutus said, quiet but loud enough to wake him. “Antony, wake up. _Lucilius is here._ ’

Antony stretched, rolling over and looking up at both of them. “Ah. Right.” He sat up, running his hands through his hair, yawning, forcing himself awake. He gestured towards the empty half of the bed, “If you want to go back to sleep, I can talk to him outside.” 

“No. Thank you.” Brutus responded stiffly, struggling to avoid Lucilius’ searching gaze.

Silence. 

Antony picked his tunic up off the floor and tugged it over his head inelegantly. “What did you want?”

Lucilius hesitated, tongue tied. “I- Last night. You told me to come speak to you… Sir.”

“Yes- Yes I did.” Antony stood up, shaking himself. “Brutus, I’m going to-” Antony broke off, seeing the look of horror on Brutus’ face. “ _What?_ ”

“He knows? This isn’t _news_ to him?”

“Did you think I got you down from Pangaion by myself?” 

Brutus turned his shocked gaze on Lucilius, shame forgotten for a moment, “You _helped_ him?”

“Sir - you were unconscious. I didn’t want you to be captured-“

“ _That’s exactly what I am._ ”

“Captured by _Octavius_.”

“Because captured by Antony is _better?_ ”

Lucilius hesitated, like he was ashamed, like whatever he was thinking was not something you said out loud. 

Brutus felt a heated, burning anger itching under his skin, mixing with his shame, getting worse the longer Lucilius was silent, the longer Antony stared at them in uninhibited amusement. “ _ **What?**_ Whatever you’re thinking, _say it._ ”

“Based on- A minute ago…” Lucilius looked helplessly at Antony, pleading to be sent away. “It seemed like you might not-”

Brutus started to take a threatening step forward, responding to his tone before Lucilius could even get the words out, but Antony grabbed his shoulder.

“ _No._ ” Brutus bit out, throwing Antony off. “Me being alive is _bad enough_ \- You finding me last night is- No. Not _this_. _Gods_ what did I do-”

“For fucks sake. _Stop it._ Does it matter what he thinks?”

“ _Yes._ ” 

“ _Fine._ Want me to spell it out?” Antony turned to Lucilius. “I didn’t fuck Brutus. He didn’t fuck me. _No fucking of any kind occurred._ Just because it was freezing cold last night doesn’t make _this one over here_ with the goddamn _Virility Complex_ a cinaedus.” 

This speech did not make Lucilius any more comfortable with the situation.

It did nothing to appease Brutus. 

Antony may, perhaps, have been enjoying himself. 

Lucilius, struggling to find something to say, finally, pathetically voiced- “What was it you wanted, then?”

Antony laughed helplessly, sharp and abrupt. “Focussed. On task- _I like that._ ” He glanced at Brutus, flushed with anger, not breathing. “I want you both to leave today - Lucilius is going to make sure you reach the island safely.”

Brutus didn’t say anything, he was staring with forced focus at the edge of the tent. 

“What, no argument?” Antony asked.

Brutus could hear Antony’s laughter before it began. His head went back, militant, 

“ _Fine._ ” He spat. "What if I refuse? What if I walk out of here right now and find Octavius and tell him to kill me.”

“He won’t.”

“ _Why not?_ ”

“He doesn’t want you dead. _Not right away._ He wants a political statement.”

“ _And what do you want?_ ”

Antony looked at him thoughtfully, silent for longer than Brutus’ comfort, until, glancing at Lucilius, he said flippantly. “I’d like a little gratitude.

Brutus tensed, waiting for Antony to make some joke about his nightmares, about his inability to kill himself. Nothing. Silence.

After a moment Lucilius asked- “Was there anything else, sir?”

“No. Come back with lacernae and armour for Brutus. You two were having so much fun being mistaken for each other… let’s use that.” 

Lucilius left, unable to meet Brutus’ eyes.

Antony picked up his cuirass, dropping it over his head and starting to do up the buckles. Brutus watched him for a moment, not moving. 

“I don’t think you want _gratitude._ ” Brutus said, into the silence.

Antony smiled slightly, but didn’t look at him, engaged in disentangling a strap. “No. I don’t particularly care.”

“Why Lucilius?” _Why did it have to be Lucilius? Why someone who respected me? Why someone I never wanted to disappoint?_

“I needed someone who wouldn’t betray you.”

“If he didn’t want to betray me he should have killed me.”

“Is that how you want to die? Death unawares? Not really a martyr's end. Maybe not honourable.”

“Between a questionable death and this…” Brutus trailed off, tense and still angry.

Antony shrugged, looking away, cursing under his breath at a buckle undone and out of reach.

Brutus leaned against Antony’s desk, watching his annoyance, enjoying it a little, as much as he could enjoy anything. “What did you tell him? How’d you persuade him?”

“I told him I wouldn’t hurt you.” Midnight echo of truth, covered with unfocussed disinterest. 

Brutus stepped forward, pushing Antony’s hands out of the way in exasperation and fixing the errant strap, straightening it and pulling it through the clasp. “You don’t want me dead.” He fixed another buckle. “You don’t want gratitude.” He centred the clasp of Antony’s sword belt. "What _do_ you want?”

Antony looked down at him, expression unreadable as Brutus fixed his armour.

“You’re good at that.”

“Cassius and I would-” Brutus broke off sharply, a dull flush suddenly rising, vivid beneath his pale skin. 

Antony smiled slightly. A little amused, a little provoking. Something dark and maybe jealous behind it. _Oh so you **are** a bit of a hypocrite. _

“ _Don’t._ ”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You were going to.” Brutus started to step away but Antony grabbed his arm.

“Why the shame?”

Brutus stared him down, taking in a short, close mouthed breath - “You know why.”

“I don’t care.”

“I know _you_ don’t.”

“Who else is there now?”

Brutus looked away, silent for a long moment till a laugh broke from him, forced, bitter, and seething, “ _I’m enough._ ” He glanced back at Antony, trying to shift the focus, voice cutting, deriding. “Well? Going to tell me what you want? You’ve been stalling so long I’m beginning to think _you’re_ ashamed of something. Or do you not have a plan? Did you just blunder into this without thinking and drag me along into another one of your disasters? _That’s what this is._ It’s going to-”

Antony grabbed Brutus and pulled him against him. He knotted his fingers through Brutus’ hair, yanking his head back. He kissed him. A little too hard, brutal, like he’d been torn between hitting him and embracing him. He bit at his lip, the bitter bright taste of blood on his tongue. 

Brutus gasped, frozen for a moment, body arching against Antony’s, following the pull of his hand, the moment dragging out - and then he shoved Antony away violently, cursing, twisting to get free. 

Brutus yelped as Antony used his grip on his hair to spin him around, pushing him down onto the desk. Antony pressed himself along Brutus’ back, holding one of Brutus’ arms twisted behind him. 

“ _You’re asking the wrong question._ ” He said quietly, breath hot against the back of Brutus’ neck. “I don’t _want_ anything. I _have_ everything. You can’t give me anything I can’t already _take._ ” 

Brutus stopped struggling, tense and still under Antony’s weight, his voice tight with anger, or something like it. “ _You said you wouldn’t hurt me._ ”

Antony loosened his grip, pulling back slightly but not enough. He untangled his fingers from Brutus’ hair, pressing his palm flat against the back of Brutus’ neck, fingers curling around towards his throat in a solid, assured grip. “Does this hurt?”

Brutus didn’t move for a moment, a tense, shaken breath filling his lungs. Then he wrenched himself free of Antony’s grip. 

Antony didn’t try to stop him. He watched him, watched the heated blood burning through Brutus’ skin.

“I didn’t lie to Lucilius.” Antony said. Suddenly calm, matter of fact, the dangerous, pragmatic, predator disappearing as abruptly as if he’d closed a door on it. “I didn’t lie to you. I _will_ have what I want. But I’m not going to force you. Not interested. I think I can persuade you.”

“ _Persuade me?_ ” Brutus threw his head back, challenging, incendiary, “ _I don’t believe you_. I don’t believe _that’s_ what you want. We’re both a fight. That’s who we are. We’re not good at _peace._ ”

Antony smiled slightly, a tired, hesitant, long standing familiarity slipping in. “No. We’re not. I’m not talking about peace. I like when you _want_ things. I like when you’re passionate. Even when its rage. I like when you’re vehement. When you let go.” 

Silence.

Antony watched Brutus speculatively, finally asking - “Did you ever let go for Cassius?”

Brutus stepped forward violently, grabbing Antony’s focale and yanking him closer, threatening. “ _Don’t. Don’t fucking dare._ ”

Antony reached up and calmly broke Brutus’ grip, holding his gaze. He made him open his hand, firm but not rough. He pressed a kiss against Brutus’ palm, once and then again. Brutus tensed, the muscles down his arm, to his shoulder, straining to pull away from Antony’s grip. 

“ _Well?_ ” Antony asked quietly, “Did you?”

Brutus was silent. 

Antony smiled. “ _Good._ ” He picked up his cloak and swung it over his shoulders, clasping the broach in place. “Lucilius will be back soon. _Safe travels._ ” 

And then he was gone.


	7. Chapter 7

They left at dusk. 

A small ship, few sailors. 

They kept their hoods up, spoke little. 

Once out of sight of the camp, Lucilius had tried to speak. Halting, anxious, he’d attempted an apology, then an explanation. 

Brutus bent his head beneath the cloak, shadows hiding his face. He didn’t respond. 

Lucilius’ voice trailed off eventually, the clatter of hooves, the crash of the evening tide, the weight of Brutus’ silence overwhelming. 

Like traveling with a ghost. 

It had been less ghoulish carrying Brutus’ pale as a corpse, dead-weight body down from the mountain than it was riding next to him, speechless in the darkling hush.

Torches by the docks flared up, flickering across the sea drenched boards. Brutus ignored Lucilius’ help, slinging a bag over his shoulder and walking ahead of him, quickly, footsteps sharp on the pier, towards the only ship. 

It was a small fishing port, not the bustle of Amphipolis, no sign of soldiers, merchants, or war. Damp, seeping cold coming off the water.

Lucilius glanced at the guard who’d travelled with them, hesitating slightly before getting down and handing over the reigns. The guard didn't move. Waiting. Disinterested. Easy enough brief, wasn’t it? _See that he gets on the ship. It'll be your head if he doesn’t._

Watching Brutus’ thin, tense shoulders in the distance, Lucilius was unsure. 

He followed him down the pier. Brutus hesitated at the gangway, looking back, eyes shadowed, the sharp, almetic light of the torches glancing off the water barely touching him.

“Do you think you're more to blame?” He asked, when Lucilius was next to him. “Do you think I’ll forgive you?”

Lucilius didn't say anything. Sound of the horses stamping, the guard still waiting in the distance. 

“Two against one?” Brutus went on. “You could have given me a knife.” 

Lucilius was silent.

“Didn't even occur to you, did it?” Brutus stared him down, dark as an angry Saturn, “ _You follow orders._ ”

Lucilius took in a breath, salt sharp, heavy with damp rot and algae. He couldn’t deny it. He liked the battlefield. He liked orders. He liked knowing what was right.

 _Help me._ Antony had said.  
_Help me get him away from here._  
_I won’t hurt him._

He hadn’t hesitated, that night on the mountain. He’d believed Antony.

Brutus had failed to kill himself. _Brutus had failed_. What else could Lucilius have done? Brutus' reputation wasn't just his. More than a life and death matter. No one could know he’d done it wrong. No one could know he hadn't lived up to himself. No one could know he hadn’t died.

 _I won’t hurt him._ Antony had said.  
_I won’t tell anyone._  
_Help me hide him._

He hadn't hesitated.

“Do you want to die?” Lucilius asked.

Brutus didn’t respond for a moment. A sailor pushed past them, taking the gangway in a single stride and dropping down to the deck. 

“I don't know that I want to live.”

Sound of the guard dismounting. There was no one left on the dock, just them. 

“He won’t kill you.” Lucilius said quickly, urgently. “His head if he does. I heard Antony."

Precise, legionary tramp on the dock, echoing on the water.

Brutus' grip tightened on the strap of his bag, like he wished it was the strap of a sword sheath, staring past Lucilius towards the soldier coming towards them.

Sound of the sailors behind them, “ _Have to go now. We’ll miss the tide._ ” 

“Every man will kill if his own life's in danger.” Brutus said quietly, tonelessly.

“ _Do you want to die?_ " Lucilius asked again. 

Brutus hesitated, staring at the sword at Lucilius’ side. Then calmly, precisely, like the guard was miles away instead of mere feet, he said - “I think it is more your fault. I think it's on your head now too.”

“If you hadn't waited so long to kill yourself, none of this-” Lucilius started to say.

Brutus looked up at him, mouth twisting, anger and bitterness hiding shame. “You could have helped me. You could have killed him. _Killed me_. Given me a sword. I called down a curse on the Caesarians. It’s on you now too. You’re their dog. _Good luck with that_.” 

Brutus turned abruptly, not even looking at the soldier coming towards them. He jumped down to the deck.

Lucilius started to follow him, but Brutus called, “Not part of your brief, is it?” He dropped his bag at the prow of the ship. “Run back to Antony. Tell him you did your job. I think these good people will keep me from _drowning myself_.”

Lucilius hesitated at the gangplank. They were untying the ship from the dock. “Can it really be that bad?” He shouted.

Brutus didn’t say anything. He tugged his cloak around himself, settling against the side of the ship, inscrutable.

The sailors pushed away from the shore.

Lucilius watched them out of sight. 

The darkness deepened, fog coming in, until even the ship’s lanterns were swallowed up by the night.


	8. Chapter 8

Three months later, Antony showed up. 

Late afternoon, cool, almost cold. It had been snowing in Athens before he left.

The island was only a few miles across, rocky, arid, not fit for much. The steps to the house were carved into the rock, steep and twisting, leading up through clusters of pine trees. 

Antony didn’t hesitate till halfway up the stairs. He could see the roof of the house above the tops of the pines. Silence except for the wind. No signs of life.

He continued up the hill, the sun sinking into the ocean in the distance. 

The house was an old one, sprawling, bleached white, a broad stone porch spreading out towards the cliff’s edge, moss grown and worn. The terrace was empty. The shutters up and down the house all closed. No lights. 

Antony pushed open the door, a little hesitantly perhaps, uncharacteristic. He crossed the threshold into the vague gloom of the unlit house. A few pieces of furniture, carved wood chairs, a table, old and beginning to splinter. The frescoes on the wall were cracked. Perhaps, if there was light, it would have felt friendly, like an old, inherited home, worn with use rather than disuse. In the quiet, dusty, dark Antony felt apprehensive, ill at ease. 

He went through the next few rooms, all empty, all a little dusty, chairs pushed to the wall, shutters tied shut, the light growing less and less. 

In the bedroom, there were a few signs of life. A blanket folded on the bed, a pair of sandals under the window. Less dust than anywhere else. Antony carefully shut the door on the room and went back out onto the terrace. 

Deep red light was spilling across the stones, the end of the daylight. A few more minutes and it would be dark. 

Brutus was coming up the hill from the sea, no cloak, no belt, just a sun bleached tunic, barefoot, his hair tangled and dripping with water. He stopped when he saw Antony, hesitating before the last step on to the terrace. 

“Trying to drown yourself?” Antony asked, unmoving. Brutus didn’t look entirely human. He looked like a small thing would send him running.

Brutus swallowed, tense, taking in a breath and then another, “No.” He said finally, almost inaudible, his voice dry with disuse. “No, I wasn’t.” He managed, a little louder, finally taking another step onto the terrace. “How long have you been here?”

“Not long.”

Brutus hesitated, glancing between Antony and the door to the house, and then, with what seemed to be a significant undertaking of will, he brushed past him and went inside.

Antony followed him, watching as he took a flint from the window sill and reached up to light one of the hanging lamps at the corners of the room. 

“I thought you’d changed your mind.” Brutus said after a moment, not looking at Antony. “Or something had happened to you.”

“I had things to do.”

Brutus laughed, harsh and cracked, “Very busy, I can imagine. Never a dull day for you.”

“Are you going to be petulant about it?”

“It’s not petulance.” 

Antony sat down at the table, pushing the chair back and sprawling, taking up the space. “Do you spend your whole day down by the shore?”

“Sometimes.” Short, terse, as if he’d rather Antony didn’t know anything about his life. “You going to just show up without warning like this again?”

“Probably.”

Brutus leaned against the wall, uncomfortable, out of place, staring at Antony, searching. “I want you to let me go.” He said, calm, direct, incredibly restrained. As though he’d practiced - and, Antony thought, _he probably had_. “What do I have to do for that?”

Silence. And then Antony laughed suddenly, at the question, at the intransigence of Brutus’ stance. “What are you offering?”

“I’m not. I’m asking what it would take.”

Antony shrugged, crossing his arms on the table. “Right now? I can’t think of anything.”

Brutus didn’t say anything to that. He didn’t look surprised, or disappointed, only, perhaps, a little more weary. 

“What would make it more bearable?” Antony asked, after a moment. 

Brutus’ mouth twisted slightly, he stared at the corner of the table across from Antony. “ _What are you offering?_ ”

“Just tell me.”

“I want to know what’s possible.” 

“Books? Some of your belongings?”

“I want someone to talk to.”

“I-”

“Atticus. I want Atticus.”

“I won’t-”

“He doesn’t have to know its me.” Brutus said, slamming the words in before Antony could fully refuse. “I’ve thought it through. He can think I’m anyone you like. I’ll say I’m working on a translation. Or a history. We’ll talk about that. You can read the letters before you give them to him. I don’t care.” 

Antony hesitated, not responding for some time, trying to ignore the weight of Brutus’ gaze, impatient, almost pleading. 

“I’ll think about it.” He said finally, then, almost smirking he added, “You’ll have to be very nice to me.”

“Some strategy you have - Locking me up here and then expecting friendliness.” 

“We were bargaining, not talking about manners. You want something? Make it worth my while. _My strategy is fine._ ”

Brutus crossed his arms, keeping to the edges of the room. The light was gone, the lamp throwing shadows up against the walls. “This can’t be worth the trouble.” He said finally. “Keeping me here, keeping it secret, _making the trip._ ”

“I like trouble.”

“Don’t be idiotic, you know what I mean - This is a lot of work. _And I know how you feel about that._ ”

“Isn’t it a little flattering, then?” Antony asked.

Brutus stared at him. “I’m sorry, _what?_ ”

“I think you’re _worth_ the work.”

“Oh, _yes_ , let me just strip down and _thank_ you.”

Silence. 

Brutus watched him, tense, arms tightly wrapped around himself, and Antony, uncomfortable, looked away. 

Brutus glanced to the door, hesitant, considering, and then skittishly went around Antony, grabbed a heavy shepherd’s blanket from the windowsill and started to go. “Take the bed. I’m not sharing it with you.”

“You didn’t mind it so much last time-”

“Goodnight, Antony.”

“Wait—” Antony called, but Brutus just closed the door behind him.

Antony got up, fighting exasperation. He went out on the terrace, looking for some sign of Brutus, but it was dark, clouds coming in, and Brutus hadn’t taken a lamp. 

The island was small but not that small. Three months in - Brutus probably knew every inch of it. Antony would have no luck hunting him down, not in the unfamiliar dark. He went back inside, blew out the lamps, and lay down on the bed. The blankets smelled of the sea, smoke, and something dry and heady peculiar to Brutus. Antony lay for some time, staring at the ceiling, ears pricked, listening to see if Brutus might come back to the house if he saw the lights were out. Nothing but silence, and the waves crashing against the cliffs. He finally blew out the last lamp, tugged the blankets over himself, and fell asleep.


End file.
